My life has been a rich bouquet
Composed of flowers, weeds and thorns.
I cherish, give value to every one
For different gifts they’ve given me.
Flowers bloomed beauty in my path.
Weeds put obstacles before me.
Thorns taught grappling with problems.
All were life lessons necessary.
My life has changed, bouquet no longer
My lot is now a fallow field
Ready to grow what seeds are planted.
My life’s become simplicity.
Time to be one rose complete.
For more is less and less is more.
The scene out my window is always changing.
Last week I saw smoke upward ascending
Tinted pink by the dawn’s rosy fingers.
White winter snow like wedding cake icing
Delights my eye, I forget that it’s freezing
Outdoors. Sunset comes early, soon sky’s like ink
Forms perfect backdrop for the traffic light’s winking.
Green, yellow and red constantly changing.
I know spring is a teaser. It hurries right past.
Birdsong and green buds, smells of the earth
Hold proverbial promises of endless warm days
To fulfill my winter’s wishes – as if they could.
Spring is a teaser.
Then “endless summer” fills up my senses – enticing smells
Of barbecue grilling and cheerful sounds of families talking.
After the picnics I hear the beep-beeping of garbage trucks
Backing as they pick up the trash. I hear the splashing
Of children at play in blue swimming pool water. Up above
I watch as squirrels scamper across a canopy of branches
In oak trees arching. I eagerly await their newborns to appear.
But then summer ends.
Fall. Acorns are dropping from oaks overhead. It sounds like
Artillery as they strike the ground. I hear the geese honking
As they fly somewhere warm. Nips in the air feel fresh and bracing.
I’ve developed amnesia of what they portend. Instead I am basking
In glow of leaves turning. Until they fall.
You are my magic carpet, my open sesame.
You lend wings to soar to cities only dreamed about.
You hold keys to doors of other cultures.
Oh, small book, you spread a wide new world before my eyes.
Within your pages are the records
Of all the places I have visited abroad.
You hold records also of my different names and addresses
As I’ve traversed my inner landscape and learned how to be free.
Tissue paper crackles, tired smile wrinkles deepen on her care-worn face. Her eyes sparkle and tremble with tears as she unwraps tiny figures from another time and space. Long ago she stored them away with her childhood. Today long pushed-down stories float to the surface. Daydreams of narrations she authored wake up. She stirs the cold ashes and recalls to mind stories she wrote for the figures she holds in her hands. They were the actors who played out her fantasies when she asked and answered “if only, what if?”.
Below zero. The morn’s frigid, ice everywhere.
Jack Frost has been at it – his art our despair.
Lacy ice tracings bring us to our knees
Engines struggle to turn over when it’s -15 degrees
Below zero.
High noon. Bright sunshine warmth becomes recompense.
Strong brilliant rays deliver defense.
Icy powers of Jack Frost let go, soon melt away.
No matter how sparkly his art holds no sway at
High noon.
I travel back, close my eyes, see you dimly
Pumpkin awaiting, mice all in harness.
You carried me dashing to the dance of a lifetime
Where I was transformed, but not by a prince.
Though tears mist my memories I’ll never forget you.
You showed me a city of people and places
That changed me forever, filled me with adventure.
That person enduring still dreams within me.
In beaming sunshine of nowadays I see us.
I moved away and travel a new route.
You haven’t changed much. I’d know you anywhere
Chicago Transportation, the #6 bus.
Like blue sky
Above me
My color
Is bright.
I'm a creature
Who flies and who
Buzzes and hums until
People with swatters and
Horse with a tail swats and
Swish at me to little avail.
I want to be seen as a gift of
Sheer beauty. My wings shimmer
And shine in the light. Now how
Can they look at my iridescence
And think me a nuisance and blight?
August of 2012 from my window I spied them
By the pool playing word games. Now how
Cool is that! I left boxes unpacked and hurried on
Down, assured of their welcome by manager Pat.
Epiphany zany – this group of ladies will kindly include me the very
First day I arrive. Thriving in this place would soon be my lot.
Gregarious, hilarious and gracious to boot. I thought to be part of these ladies a
Hoot. But does such enthusiasm have a lingering shelf life?
I wondered, while pondering old memories of moving when
Joys abounded, then were followed by proving what
Kind of friends we would be in the long run.
Late in the day, winter and summer, we gathered to play and have fun.
Much to our surprise we realized with glee that we had morphed into an
N.O.R.C. The papers report designs giving heart to ladies unresigned to the old ways
Of aging. Naturally Occurring Retirement Communities are the clue. We’re in the stage of
Preparing to age with pizzaz. We plan to pool skills and gifts of which we have
Quite a few. First off we comprehend that the race goes to those who don’t fall.
Right. We’ll exercise, practice balance and wear a necklace that calls for help if we do.
Struggles will dog us. We have no doubt. Our strengths will erupt like the fountains of youth
That we once were. Alas, now no more. But we’re good to our word and strong-hearted of core.
Upright is our motto, and proudly we stand. Canes and walkers may aid us as undaunted we
Vow to be true to each other while we yet hold the cards and continue our games.
We wrinkled warriors with a clear plan or two have by pure luck found our own
Xanadu. We awake everyday, say thanks for our blessings. What’s ahead is left to guessing.
Yesterday is behind us, our future’s unknown. Today we remain happy, independent and free.
Zany epiphany? Oh, yes I can see a new horizon beckons to me.
Jettison January. Banish the blizzard.
I want to be spell-bound by a warm weather wizard.
Whisked backwards in time
It would be sublime
To loaf on a rock like a sun-loving lizard.
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poetrybyheart.me 
Writing 101 – Short and Sweet
by poetrybyheart.me@poetrybyheart.meFor me writing and receiving comments, along with their ever-spooling threads, are the connective tissue of the Word Press Community. It affirms me when someone lets me know they “get” what lies beneath my words. I’ve learned things about my writing that I couldn’t have otherwise known. When I comment on a post I look and listen for meaning and reflect it back to the blogger. Intuition and empathy guide me.
And there is more. I love comments where another blogger and I find mutual kinship and continue in threads to “know” each other. After a while we comment and reply with few words like old friends. Blogging has opened up a wondrous new world for me.
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